The Dead Man: Face of Evil (7 page)

Andy watched as Rachel's car sped past the restaurant and back towards town.

"If we lose those fries, Goodis, it's going on your permanent record," Chip said.

Andy adjusted his Happy Burger cap, tugged on his Happy Burger shirt, and turned to Chip.

"Well, if it's that important to you, Chip, don't you think you should handle this crisis personally?"

Chip straightened up and lifted his chin with pride. “I'm management. You're food preparation."

Andy smiled at Bubbles, the perky cashier, and imagined for a moment how her big Happy Burger smile would look around his big happy cock.

Chip stabbed Andy with his finger, breaking his reverie. “I'm talking to you, Goodis."

Andy whirled around, grabbed Chip by the back of the head, and led him over to the French fryer.

"Don't be shy, Chip, take charge." He held Chip's head over the vat of boiling oil.

"How do the fries look?"

Chip squealed, the hot oil spraying in his face. “They're fine! They're fine!"

Andy looked over his shoulder at Bubbles, who was staring at him in horror.

He smiled at her. “Where's your smile?"

And then he shoved Chip's face into the fryer and watched her scream.

Andy got hard in an instant.

Her scream was infectious.

Within seconds, everyone but Andy was screaming. Bubbles. The customers. The kitchen crew.

And Andy just stood there, pup tent in his pants, Chip flailing under his grasp.

"How are we doing on that golden brown texture, Chip?" Andy lifted Chip's face out of the fryer for a moment and examined it.

But Chip had no face, just a sizzling, oozing slab of deep-fried skull meat with French fries stuck in it.

"They look done to me," Andy said.

A stocky Mexican employee at the burger grill had enough, grabbed a knife, and charged him.

Andy shoved Chip at the Mexican, who inadvertently skewered Chip on his outstretched knife and watched in horror as blood splurted all over his arm.

"Oops," Andy said.

Bubbles turned to flee, but Andy stuck out his leg and tripped her, sending her face-first to the floor. When she started to rise, he picked up the cash register and dropped it on her head.

The remaining two employees in the kitchen came at him now, so Andy reached under the counter for the Happy Burger Happy Shotgun and happily blasted one guy onto the burger grill and the other into the milk-shake machine, releasing a spray of chocolate.

That left only the Mexican still standing, holding the bloody knife in his hand and blubbering like a baby over Chip, who convulsed at his feet in a puddle of blood, fries, and vegetable oil.

It was damn irritating.

So Andy swung the shotgun at the Mexican's head like a bat at a piñata and felt the satisfying smack of contact. The Mexican dropped, banged his head on the edge of the fryer, and crumpled on top of Chip.

There was a moment of stillness as Andy stood there, the shotgun in one hand, his hard-on in the other, listening to the sound of the sizzling grill, the fry alarm, the splurt of the milk-shake machine, and the whimpering of the dozen customers who were hiding under their tables.

It was such a beautiful noise.

Andy smiled to himself, gave his hard-on a friendly tug, then reached under the counter for the box of shells and strolled out the door, singing the Happy Burger song.

"Don't be sad, don't be blue, Happy Burger has treats for you!"

Rachel and Matt were driving home as this was going on. She was still worried about Matt. She wanted to take him to the hospital but he adamantly refused to go.

"It's just food poisoning," he said. “Or stomach flu."

"You were dead last week," she said. “Don't you think it would be a good idea to see a doctor just in case it's something else?"

"Like a side effect of death?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"I vomited. That's all. People puke all the time without dying first."

"You were also acting very strange at Happy Burger."

"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing exactly what she meant. He hadn't been able to get Andy's decomposing face out of his mind since they'd left.

"You looked terrified," she said.

"I was thinking about the cholesterol," he said. “And the calories."

Rachel gave him a look. “I love you. Don't blow me off like that."

She turned the car onto Main Street just as two cop cars roared past them in the opposite direction, sirens wailing. Matt watched them go in his side-view mirror.

A moment later, a Sheriff's Department helicopter roared overhead, heading in the same direction as the cop cars.

Towards Seattle.

Or the Canadian border.

Or Happy Burger.

They could be going anywhere, but somehow, someway, Matt knew with absolute certainty that they weren't.

They were going to Happy Burger.

Where his oldest friend was decomposing with a smile.

"Turn around," Matt said.

"Why?"

"It's Andy," Matt said. “He needs my help."

"When are you going to accept the fact that he's an asshole? You can't save him from being fired from Happy Burger any more than you could save his job at the mill."

"You didn't see his face," Matt said. “He's dying inside."

"God didn't put you back on this earth to be Andy's guardian," she said, bringing the car to a stop at an intersection and looking at him. “He brought you back for me."

Matt met her gaze. “Please. If you really love me, you will take me back there." She glared at him. “Fuck you."

And with that, she made a U-turn and sped back to Happy Burger.

Two police officers standing in the street stopped traffic a block away from Happy Burger and directed drivers to turn around. But even from that distance, Matt saw enough to know that something very bad had happened.

A chopper circled over Happy Burger and bathed the scores of police cars, paramedic units, and ambulances out front in its harsh spotlight. Officers were spread out on foot, moving cautiously up and down the street, their guns out, searching for someone.

Matt knew in his gut who it was.

As Rachel started to turn the car around, Matt told her to slow down and lowered his window to talk to the officer, a potbellied man in his fifties.

"I have a friend working at Happy Burger," Matt said. “Can you tell me what happened?"

"There was a shooting," the officer said. “The assailant is at large."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"I really can't say any more than that. This block is restricted," the officer said.

"You'll have to move on."

They drove back to Rachel's house in silence. She parked the car in the driveway and turned to Matt.

"You think it was Andy, don't you?"

"I know it was," he said. “I saw his face."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind." He held his hand out to her. “I need your car keys. I have to find him."

"Leave it to the police. Please."

"They'll kill him."

"Maybe he needs killing," Rachel said.

But she gave him the keys.

He walked her to the door, gave her a kiss, and then went around to the backyard to pick up his grandfather's ax.

Matt drove back to the cabin, but Andy wasn't there.

Matt drove back to the shotgun shack where he grew up and looked under the porch. But Andy wasn't there.

And then he remembered something that Rachel had said to him.

When are you going to accept the fact that he's an asshole? You can't save him from being fired from Happy Burger any more than you could save his job at the mill.

He knew where to find Andy.

Matt drove to the sawmill, and even from a distance, he could see Andy's truck in the yard.

There was an armed security guard that patrolled B. Barer and Sons after hours. He was lying dead at the front gate, stomach blown open, intestines in his hands. His gun was gone, as were all the bullets that once lined his belt.

Matt steered the car around the guard's body and parked beside Andy's truck. The lights were on in one of the mills, and he could hear the unmistakable buzz of the circular saw running inside.

Matt knew the police were looking for Andy, too. They had a helicopter and knew what his truck looked like.

They'd be here soon. He didn't have much time.

He picked up the ax from the passenger seat, got out of the car, and walked into the mill.

It was dark and filled with tall stacks of logs and pallets of freshly cut lumber waiting to be shipped.

He breathed deep, taking in the sweet scent of freshly cut wood. But it was tinged with the aroma of death, like there was an animal rotting away in a dark corner of the mill.

But he knew it wasn't an animal.

And he knew it wasn't dead.

It was Andy.

"Andy?" he called out. “I'm alone. I'm here to help."

"Gee, Matt, that's awfully nice of you," Andy's voice echoed through the mill. “I'd really appreciate a hand right now."

Matt emerged from between the stacks of logs and found himself at the end of a conveyor line leading to the circular saw, the oldest of the Frick rigs at the mill. At the far end, he saw Andy at the controls, pulling the levers that steered the logs into the whirring blade and controlled the cut.

Andy's eyes were the only recognizable part of his face that remained. The rest was exposed skull with scattered bits of dried blood and putrid flesh sticking to the bone.

The skin of his neck had rotted away, leaving only the stringy remains of the ligaments and muscles that had once supported his head, which now hung heavily from the end of his spinal column.

All he needed was a pair of sunglasses and he could be a skeletal David Caruso.

Wearing the Happy Burger cap.

As horrifying as it was, the edge had been dulled. Matt was getting used to the gruesome sight.

What he didn't know was why he was seeing it.

And smelling it.

There was a log heading for the blade, and Roger Silbert, the former Zippy Cola executive who'd fired Matt and Andy, was tied to the middle of it like the heroine in a silent movie serial, his mouth gagged.

"Glad to see you brought the ax," Andy said. “Because I'm afraid when I cut this worm in half, I'm gonna end up with two of the slimy bastards. So if you'd cut down the first one that gets up, that'd be a big help."

Silbert looked at Matt with wide, terrified, pleading eyes as the front of the log hit the blade, spraying him with sawdust. There were only seconds left before Silbert would be halved.

Matt threw his ax like a tomahawk at the electrical cable that snaked from the Frick saw to the junction box on the wall.

The cable split in a spray of sparks, shutting down the saw, and the ax stuck in the wood in the wall.

Matt hurried over to Silbert, fearing the worst.

Silbert's head was covered with sawdust, the serrated edge of the blade stuck in his scalp, blood seeping from the wound. But he was alive, simpering and pissing into his pants, the acrid stench of urine competing with the odor of Andy's rot to turn Matt's stomach.

There was also a strange little sore on Silbert's cheek, like a festering blister, only there was something more malignant about it. But before Matt could give much thought to it, Andy grabbed his shotgun, stepped away from the controls, and marched over.

"Why did you do that?" Andy wailed.

Matt faced Andy and stood protectively in front of Silbert. “Because you would have killed him."

"That was the idea, you fucktard," Andy said. He had the guard's gun wedged under the waistband of his pants and the shotgun cradled in his arms. “Move away so I can blast him."

"I'm not going to let you do this."

"You'd like to kill the bastard, too. You just don't have the balls to do it."

"Enough people have died tonight," Matt said. “This isn't you, Andy."

"What are you talking about? Haven't you heard? I'm the most worthless creature that ever crawled out of a woman's snatch."

"Your father was wrong," Matt said. “You were a good kid then, and I know that deep down inside you're still a good man now."

"You ever wonder what happened to Daddy-o?"

"Nope," Matt said. “I was just glad that he left."

"One night, when he was taking Momma up the ass on the kitchen table, I beat him to death from behind with a crowbar," Andy said. “And then Momma and I borrowed your father's saw and cut him up into little pieces. She stewed the meat and we ate him so nobody would ever find his body. We had Daddy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two weeks before he was finally gone. At least he had the courtesy to marinate himself in beer for most of his life. Can't imagine how much worse he would have tasted otherwise."

"I don't believe you," Matt said.

But he did. No matter how hard he tried to tell himself this was a lie, this was part of Andy's insanity, he knew it was the truth.

"I've been carrying that taste in my mouth for twenty years, buddy. There wasn't enough beer, whiskey, or pussy to wash it way. But tonight, for the first time, it's gone." Andy held the shotgun out to Matt. "Want to take the fall for me again? Huh? What do you say? If they give you the chair, you might not feel a thing."

"I can't get you out of this one, Andy. But I can make sure you walk out of here alive."

"What would be the fun in that?"

The mill was suddenly rocked by the sound of the chopper flying low overhead, and an instant later, a blinding light blasted through the skylight above.

Matt took advantage of the distraction and charged Andy, slamming into him hard and pushing him back against the sorting table, the shotgun falling from his grasp and clattering to the dust-covered floor.

Andy cackled with glee. "You fight like a girl."

He kneed Matt in the stomach, shoved him away, and reached for his gun.

But he didn't have it.

Matt did.

And he was pointing it at Andy.

"It's over."

"Who are you kidding? You can't shoot me." Andy looked over at the sorting table, which was covered with cant hooks for turning logs. "Because you like me. You really, really like me."

"I won't let you hurt anyone else."

"But you and your parents didn't mind letting my daddy hurt me every single fucking day. And you don't even want to know what he did to my mother." Andy perused the cant hooks, hefting one and then another, shopping for just the right one for the task. "You knew it was happening, but you just didn't care."

"I did," Matt said. "But there was nothing I could do about it. I've tried to make it up to you ever since."

The mill rumbled again as the helicopter made another pass, raking the interior with light. Matt could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer.

"What you've done, Matt, is make my life miserable." Andy found a cant hook he liked and lifted it up. The curled, hardened-steel edge was sharpened to a fine point.

"You wouldn't get off my fucking back. You were always there, showing me how much better you were, how much happier you were, and what a shit-bag loser I was by comparison."

"I was trying to be there for you, to help you."

"Bullshit. You just wanted to keep reminding me that my dad was right. The only favor you ever did for me was dying. And you didn't even have the fucking decency to stay dead." Andy hefted the cant hook and advanced on Matt. "Try harder this time."

Andy swung the cant hook at him.

Matt leapt back and barely evaded getting snagged by the sharp point.

"Stop, Andy, or I will shoot you."

"You don't have the balls." Andy swung again.

Matt fired two shots into Andy's chest.

Andy looked down at his chest, then back up at Matt.

Andy's face and neck were restored.

The rot was gone.

He cocked his head, regarded Matt for a moment with an expression of profound sadness, and then collapsed.

Matt fell to his knees and dropped the gun on the floor. He stared at Andy, his oldest friend and the first person that he'd ever killed, and couldn't help wondering…

Was the sadness Andy felt in that last dying moment for himself…

…or was it for me?

And that's when he heard it, almost lost in the rumble of the helicopter overhead and the wail of the police sirens outside and Silbert's whimpering.

It was barely audible, but it was there, he was sure of it.

The receding sound of wicked laughter.

As he listened to the laughter fade, his gaze fell on something small, wet, and sticky lying in the sawdust on the floor.

A freshly licked lollipop.